In my opening statement, I emphasized the distinction between aesthetic and practical attitudes, and the appropriate distance between art and practical life. If I had stopped here, you might have misunderstood me as viewing art and life as two unrelated things. That is not my intention. Life is a multifaceted yet harmonious whole. Analyzing it, we can say that some parts are practical activities, some are scientific activities, and some are aesthetic activities. For the sake of clarity and reasoning, this distinction is necessary; however, we must not forget that a fulfilling life is found in the balanced development of these three activities, which, while distinguishable, are not mutually exclusive. "Practical life" is narrower in meaning than life as a whole. The common error lies in equating them, assuming that since art is separated from "practical life," it has no value in the context of life as a whole. Some people, in order to uphold the status of art, try to force it into the narrow scope of "practical life." Such people not only misunderstand art but also fail to understand life. We view real life as a fragment of the whole of life, so acknowledging the distance between art and real life does not mean acknowledging a separation between art and life as a whole. Strictly speaking, there is no art without life, because art is the expression of sentiment, and the root of sentiment lies in life; conversely, there is no life without art, because all creation and appreciation are artistic activities, and a life without creation and appreciation is a self-contradictory term. Life itself is a kind of art in a broader sense. Each person's life history is their own work. This work can be artistic or not, just like a piece of rock—one person can carve it into a great statue, while another cannot make it "usable"—the difference lies entirely in temperament and cultivation. A person who understands life is an artist, and their life is a work of art. Living a life is like writing an article. A perfect life has the beauty that a superior article should possess. First, a good article must be a complete organic whole, in which the whole and the parts are closely related, and cannot be moved or added to in the slightest. The spirit of the whole can be seen in every word and sentence. For example, Tao Yuanming's poem "Drinking Wine" originally reads, "Picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, I leisurely gaze at the Southern Mountains." Later generations mistakenly printed "gaze" instead of "see," completely losing the original's natural and harmonious feeling of encountering nature. This artistic integrity is called "personality" in life. All perfect lives are expressions of personality. From grand gestures like advancement and retreat, to small matters like voice and smile, nothing contradicts the whole personality. Refusing to bow to a village child for five pecks of rice is an essential part of Tao Yuanming's life story; if he had missed this detail, he would have lost Tao Yuanming. Refusing to escape from prison, and even on his deathbed instructing his neighbor to repay a debt of a chicken, is an essential part of Socrates' life story; otherwise, he would have lost Socrates. Only such a life story can be admired as a painting; it is a masterpiece of art. Secondly, "sincerity in rhetoric" is the key to writing. A poem or a beautiful essay must be a genuine and heartfelt expression, existing within and then manifesting outwardly, allowing no pretense. Emotion is inherently the result of the interaction and resonance between the self and the external world. Scenery is constantly changing, and so too is emotion. I have my own personality, and things have their own personalities, which grow and develop with time. The scenery each person sees at a particular time, and the emotion each scene evokes at that time, has its own uniqueness, and cannot be exactly the same as the scenery seen by another person at another time, or the emotion evoked by another scene at another time. The slightest difference lies in the subtle nuances. In this ever-evolving emotion, we can see the wonder of life. Expressing this life through language and words is good writing; expressing it through speech and conduct is a fulfilling life story. Writing should avoid vulgarity, and so should life. Vulgarity is lacking one's own authenticity and merely imitating the established rules of others. Xi Shi suffered from a heart ailment, often clutching her heart and frowning—a natural expression that enhanced her beauty. Dong Shi, without a heart ailment, forced herself to imitate the gesture, only to be repulsive. What was creation for Xi Shi was cliché for Dong Shi. Cliché stems from a barren life, a hypocritical display. "Hypocritical display" is "ugliness," as Croce already stated. "Wind on water naturally creates ripples"—this is the beauty of literature, and it is also the beauty of life. One's position, one's character, and one's emotions determine one's words and actions, creating a harmonious and complete impression—this is the essence of an artistic life. As the saying goes, "Only great heroes can be true to themselves." An artistic life is a life lived authentically. There are two kinds of people whose lives are least artistic: the vulgar and the hypocrite. The vulgar lack authenticity, while the hypocrite desperately tries to conceal it. Zhu Xi, the famous poet, wrote: "A half-acre pond, like a mirror, reflects the shimmering light and lingering shadows of clouds. How can it be so clear? Because it has a source of living water." The life of art is a life with a "source of living water." Ordinary people, obsessed with fame and fortune, drift along with the world, their hearts devoid of "the light of heaven and the shadows of clouds," precisely because they lack this "source of living water." Their greatest ailment is the barrenness of their lives. "Hypocrites," on the other hand, add the deceit of "a monkey in a crown" to this "ordinary" status. Their characteristics are not only evident in their moral hypocrisy, but every word, smile, and action evokes a sense of unease. Who knows how many walking corpses are hidden beneath the facade of a refined gentleman? Whether "ordinary" or "hypocritical," they are all "complacents" in life, lacking the conscience that artists should possess in creation. As Bergson said, they are all "mechanized lives," only fit to play roles in comedies. Those whose lives degenerate into comedy are mostly not artistic. Appreciation is inherent in every artistic creation, and so it is in life. Ordinary people often readily label a word or action as "beautiful" or "unbeautiful," which already indicates they are judging it by artistic standards. However, most people cannot be thorough; they cannot consider every word, smile, and action within the context of their entire life. Their concept of "personality" is too weak; what they consider "beautiful" or "unbeautiful" is often just a matter of "face-saving." Those who are skilled at living are thorough and serious, not allowing even the smallest speck to disrupt the harmony of their entire life. People often think artists are the most casual people, but within the realm of art, artists are the most serious. They often pour their hearts and souls into refining their works, refusing to be careless with even a single stroke. When Wang Anshi wrote the line "The spring breeze has turned the south bank of the Yangtze River green again," the original character for "green" was "arrive," then it was changed to "pass," then to "enter," then to "full," and so on, more than ten times before finally settling on "green." This example alone illustrates the seriousness of artists. Those who are skilled at living also take life seriously. When Zengzi was dying, he remembered that the mat on his bed belonged to Ji Lu and insisted that his disciples replace it before he could die in peace. Wu Ji Zha had secretly promised to give a sword to the ruler of Xu, but before he could fulfill this promise, Xu died. He solemnly hung the sword on a tree beside Xu's grave to demonstrate their unwavering loyalty, even unto death. Such words and actions may seem trivial, but those skilled at living do not easily overlook them, just as poets do not easily overlook a single word. If this is true of small matters, then it goes without saying that great matters are even more so. Dong Hu would rather die than conceal historical facts, and Yi and Qi would rather starve than surrender to Zhou. This kind of demeanor is both moral and artistic. Our advocacy for the art of living is, in essence, advocating for a serious approach to life. An artist assesses the value of things entirely by whether they can be integrated into a harmonious whole, often exceeding the expectations of ordinary people. He can value what ordinary people despise, and he can also despise what ordinary people value. When he values ​​something, he knows how to be persistent; when he disregards something, he knows how to let go. The skill of art lies not only in knowing what to take, but especially in knowing what to discard. Su Dongpo, in his essays, described it as water flowing through mountains and valleys, going where it must go, and stopping where it must stop. This is the art of knowing when to choose and when to discard. An artistic life is similar. Those who live well judge everything in the world with an artistic palate; what suits their artistic taste can become as great as a mountain, and what doesn't suit their taste can become as small as a hair. They are not only serious, but also capable of letting go. Their seriousness is revealed in their seriousness, and their magnanimity in their letting go. Meng Min dropped a pot of boiling water and left without looking back, which Guo Linzong found strange. He said, "The pot is broken; what's the use of looking back?" The philosopher Spinoza preferred to make a living grinding mirrors rather than becoming a university professor, fearing it would hinder his freedom. Wang Huizhi lived in Shanyin. One night, after a snowfall, under a clear moon, he suddenly thought of his friend Dai Kui. He took a small boat to visit him on the Shanxi River, but rowed back as soon as he reached the door. He said, "I came on a whim, and I return when the whim is over." These events are quite different, yet they both reveal the artist's magnanimity. Great lives and great art both require the simultaneous triumph of seriousness and magnanimity. Most of the literati of the Jin Dynasty only knew magnanimity but not seriousness, while most of the Neo-Confucianists of the Song Dynasty only knew seriousness but not magnanimity. Tao Yuanming and Du Fu, however, almost perfectly balanced the two. A life story is a work of art. From an ethical point of view, it has distinctions of good and evil; from an artistic point of view, it has distinctions of beauty and ugliness. What is the relationship between good and evil and beauty and ugliness? In a narrow sense, the value of ethics is practical, while the value of aesthetics transcends practicality; ethical activities are always purposeful, while aesthetic activities are without purpose. For example, virtues like benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness are all good. When asked why they are good, we must consider the happiness of humanity. Beauty, on the other hand, lies entirely in its image itself, not in its utility to humanity (this doesn't mean it has no utility). If there were only one person in the world, he couldn't engage in moral activities, because filial piety and brotherhood are necessary for parent-child relationships, and trustworthiness for friends. However, this imagined, solitary person can still engage in artistic activities, appreciate the world he inhabits, and create works of art. Goodness relies on something, while beauty does not; the value of goodness is "external," while the value of beauty is "internal." However, this distinction is ultimately narrow. Broadly speaking, goodness is a kind of beauty, and evil is a kind of ugliness. This is because ethical activities can also evoke aesthetic appreciation and aversion. The great Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle, when discussing ethical issues, believed that goodness has levels; ordinary goodness only has external value, while the "supreme good" has internal value. What exactly is this "supreme good"? Plato and Aristotle, who were at opposite ends of the spectrum—one an idealist, the other an empiricist—shared a common view on this issue. They both believed that the "highest good" lay in "disinterested contemplation." This perspective had a profound influence on Western philosophical thought, as evidenced by the doctrines of Spinoza, Hegel, and Schopenhauer. This reveals that the "highest good" in the minds of Western philosophers was also a kind of beauty, and the highest ethical activity was still an artistic activity. How can "disinterested contemplation" be considered the "highest good"? This question involves the Western philosophers' concept of God. Since the rise of Christianity, God has been seen as a compassionate moralist. However, in the minds of Greek philosophers and modern thinkers like Leibniz, Nietzsche, and Schopenhauer, God was a great artist who created the universe solely for his own creation and enjoyment. This view, however, does not diminish God's status. The God of Christianity is merely a wealthy beggar among a group of poor beggars, while the God in the minds of most philosophers is a musician who uses the universe as a symphony and seeks harmony within it. Which of these two concepts is truly greater? Western philosophers believe that God is simply a spirit, whose activities are absolutely free and unrestricted, while humans are limited by the needs of the flesh and cannot be absolutely free. The more humans can break free from the constraints of physical needs and act freely, the closer they are to God. "Playing without purpose" is the only free activity, and therefore becomes the highest ideal. This may seem somewhat esoteric, and shouldn't be discussed here. However, whether you believe it or not, many ideas are worth pondering. I myself enjoy reading philosophy books in my spare time. Frankly, I am skeptical of many philosophers' words, but I find them interesting. I believe that, ultimately, all philosophical systems can only be viewed as works of art. Philosophy and science, at their ultimate limits, both aim to satisfy the desire for knowledge. Every philosopher and scientist finds a glimpse of truth (whether it is truly truth or not) fascinating and appreciates it with enthusiasm. Truth, when it transcends practicality and becomes a center of aesthetic interest, is already an object of beauty. Scientific facts like "the Earth revolves around the sun" and "the square root of a right triangle plus its opposite equals the square of a left triangle" can be as awe-inspiring as "The Goddess of Eros" or the Ninth Symphony. Scientists seek these kinds of facts to the utmost, precisely because they are so awe-inspiring. Therefore, scientific activity is also an artistic activity; not only are good and beauty inseparable, but truth and beauty are not separated. Art is an activity of interest, and an artistic life is a life rich in interest. People can be divided into two types: those with rich interests, who find many things interesting and seek to enjoy them everywhere; and those with dry interests, who find many things uninteresting, do not seek interest, and spend their days struggling for sustenance with flies and maggots. The latter are vulgar people, the former are artists. The richer one's interests, the more fulfilling life becomes; the so-called art of living is the enrichment of life's interests. "Finding something interesting" is appreciation. Whether you understand life depends on your ability to appreciate many things. Appreciation is "playing without ulterior motives." In appreciation, one is as free and blessed as a deity. In the Alps, there's a long road with breathtaking scenery on both sides. A sign along the road advises travelers: "Take your time and enjoy the view!" Many people live in this world of rushing cars and bustling traffic, just like taking a car ride through the Alps, hurrying by without a moment to look back and savor the scenery. Thus, this rich and magnificent world becomes a lifeless prison. What a pity! My friend, before parting, I'd like to offer you this three-word farewell gift, adapted from the Alpine road sign: "Take your time and enjoy the view!"

II. Higashiyama Kaii and His Paintings Many great writers liked to express their emotional world through painting. Whether it was Goethe, Hugo, or Pushkin, they all loved art and painting. The Japanese writer Higashiyama Kaii was no exception. In his beautiful essay "Ode to Shinshu," he expressed that Shinshu was the place where he began his path to becoming a landscape painter. Today, Higashiyama Kaii, along with Hirayama Ikuo and Kayama Matazo, are considered masters on par with each other in the Japanese art world. Hirayama Ikuo's paintings possess a profound sense of life and philosophical reflection; Kayama Matazo's style is ornate, fluid, and fantastically detached; while Higashiyama Kaii possesses his own tranquil, timeless, ethereal, and serene literary realm. Each time I open a collection of Higashiyama Kaii's paintings, it's like reading a travelogue, leading me into dialogue with various different landscapes. A painting not only offers appreciation but also interpretation; it requires not only the eyes but also the mind. Eastern painting concepts encompass two spaces: one is the space of the painting itself, and the other is the viewing space jointly formed by the painting and the viewer. Higashiyama Kaii particularly valued the latter space, and his masterpiece "The Road" is one of my favorite works. In Higashiyama Kaii's "The Road," the sky serves as a backdrop. It lies vertically on a grassy hill, extending straight and slowly upwards, turning slightly to the right at the top before disappearing hazily into the distance. It became a faint outline, existing in the infinite void. In this painting, Higashiyama Kaii used cyan, hazy blue-gray, and silver-gray. In this contrast of three colors, the road is a hazy silver-gray with a hint of red, the grass and hills on the left and right are cyan, and the sky is a gray with a light blue tinge; in the contrast of light and shadow, they appear soft and warm. Regarding "The Road," Higashiyama Kaii offered his own explanation: "When I created this painting, 'The Road,' I was contemplating the road I would take in the future, and sometimes I also looked back at the road I had already traveled. It is a road interwoven with despair and hope, both the end of a wandering journey and a brand new road; a road of yearning for the future, and a road of nostalgia for the past; but the faint light appearing above the distant hills, and the road fading into the hazy distance, intensifies that feeling of the road to be traveled." Higashiyama Kaii's words made me feel the inner beauty of "The Road," submerged in nothingness within all of nature. Higashiyama Kaii also created many other paintings related to "The Road." For example, works like "Tree Roots," "Tree Soul," and "Wood Spirit" evoke memories of Kawabata Yasunari's commentary: "'Tree Roots' possesses a kind of magical power, a strange beauty rooted in the earth and supporting the sky; it is an eternal symbol of nature and human life." In my contemplation, I feel that Higashiyama Kaii's trees, focusing not on their physical form but on their soul, are what allow him to capture the rich power accumulated within their spirit and essence. This stems from his own purification of the soul. Higashiyama Kaii visited China three times, experiencing firsthand the beauty of the Chinese national spirit. He visited the scenic Huangshan Mountain, the breathtaking Guilin, and the ancient Silk Road, a vital route for East-West cultural exchange. These three trips introduced him to the world of Chinese ink painting. His paintings of Chinese landscapes are almost entirely done in ink, demonstrating his deep affection for China. The Chinese aesthetic tradition deeply permeated his heart. Although he was an amateur painter among writers, he was a true master of Japanese painting. His unique style and creative path led to his artistic brilliance.

III. The Romantic Matisse Matisse's paintings hold a place in the history of world art. His paintings evoke a vibrant, bold, romantic, and novel, fantastical imagination. Viewers can feel a fiery passion ignited in his works, along with an ineffable longing and yearning. Therefore, his works are the most splendid landscapes, the most delightful and exotic flowers and plants. "Woman in Blue," created by Matisse in 1937, depicts a serene and dignified woman, seemingly lost in thought. This painting, almost entirely done in monochrome flat washes, is a masterpiece of Matisse's exploration of color purity and brightness, and color contrast. The main colors are extremely low-purity gray and white, contrasted with high-brightness yellow and high-purity red as background accents; black with zero purity is used, with white lines placed on either side of the canvas, creating a remarkably bright yet serene color effect. I love this painting for its serene brightness. Matisse is known as a "Fauvist" painter. His "Woman in Blue" simply depicts a woman lost in thought in tranquility; like his "Red House," a woman gently arranging a fruit bowl on a tablecloth, appearing extremely gentle; seemingly unrelated to "fauvism." But those who label it "fauvism," like Matisse, don't see the meaning behind the painting; they see only the painting itself. That's the independence of painting. Both the painter and the viewer are focused solely on the painting, and that's enough. Matisse didn't object to "fauvism," hence the term "Fauvist." In reality, Matisse was the refined aristocrat, sleeping in a cap; painting with a domesticated white dove perched on his shoulder, a very romantic image. There's also the story of him accidentally falling asleep in a wicker chair one afternoon, his sketchbook falling to the floor, the page of which happened to depict a Turkish woman. Matisse lived until 1954, seemingly not so far removed from us. That woman in the red house, wearing a white dress, appears particularly serene in the fragrant, peaceful afternoon. Who she is is unimportant; what matters is the white apron she wears, which expresses Matisse's worldview. Matisse said, "I dream of an art that is balanced, pure, and tranquil, free from insecure or depressing themes." Therefore, the clothing of the women in Matisse's paintings lacks the effeminate quality often found in the works of his contemporaries. It is very down-to-earth. Of all Matisse's paintings, my favorite is The Dance. In The Dance, five nude men and women, their yellowish-brown bodies dancing freely against a bright blue and green background. Although the dancers' faces and expressions are obscured, they are like birds soaring in the sky, fish in a dream; that whimsical dance scene, unique and novel, left a deep impression on me. Matisse said, "He wanted to bring joy to people through his art; to let those living bleak and desolate lives see the bright colors of the world in his paintings." Matisse truly achieved this. His paintings always use color to dispel shadows, allowing viewers to experience a surge of joy and pleasure.

IV. Approaching Miró's Paintings I first saw a Miró exhibition in Shanghai in May 1995. Miró's paintings, with their innocent charm, humor, simplicity, richness, elegance, and romance, have captivated many. Even those unfamiliar with art will be mesmerized by the childlike innocence in his works. However, many years ago, when Miró's paintings first came to China, they faced resistance from readers. At that time, many thought such paintings were meaningless. Now, they are not only accepted by Chinese readers but have also become popular in China. Times have changed, and people's thoughts, feelings, and aesthetic perspectives have also changed. Modern people entering the world of Miró's paintings seem to step out of the heavy reality of the world. Miró's paintings are a true paradise, a place of relaxed, free, and flowing colors. There are no storms, no signs of danger or unease; all the madness and sorrow of reality are assimilated into symbols of peace. I love Miró's paintings; they are like a delicate thread, easily leading me into the universe and among the stars. It purified my soul, leaving only the embryonic seeds of the spirit. Those seeds, in the ever-flowing sea of ​​my heart, touched an inexhaustible ocean, and a soul forged by a childlike heart that would never age. Miró's world has no boundaries. He was a seed of Spain, yet carried the spirit of the East. He most admired Confucius's saying, "Human nature is similar, but habits differ." Some of his seemingly random lines and dots are like a spilled palette, colors splashed onto white paper, forming bizarre images that sparked my imagination. His lines of varying thickness evoked images of the flowing dragons and phoenixes of Chinese calligraphy, and the simple, unadorned style of children's writing. It's a Chinese aesthetic, yet I struggle to define the meaning of his images. I can only sense him through his brushstrokes and composition. He was so free, unrestrained; flowing and exuding naturally; unconventional, without rules; like a celestial horse galloping through the sky, like a fountain overflowing. Miró created in a state of freedom, an enviable state of creation. This creative state makes any deliberate affectation pale in comparison. Whether it's the abstract lines or the colors, Miró evokes a sense of ancient Chinese aesthetics. It's like entering a Zen-like state; in an immeasurable blue space, I'm guided by a flowing line. It's simple and concise; all the complexities of humanity are dissolved by the plain blue. The purity of life, it turns out, is just a simple, concise line! In a free and natural environment, innocence and romance are Miró's main characteristics. His paintings possess the eyes of a child. Those wide-eyed children, their innocent gazes curiously observing this mysterious world. In this mysterious world, we feel the master's extraordinary spirit, completing a complete and independent nature within nature itself.

V. Experiencing Dalí I've known Dalí for many years, starting with a photograph on the title page of a catalog, recognizing the image of this Spaniard with two upturned, stiff mustaches. We've known each other for a long time. The Dalí Museum, which took forty years to build, was something I saw on television. It is indeed magnificent and extraordinary, built bit by bit under Dalí's watchful eye; however, Dalí did not live to see its final, glorious completion, passing away in 1989. Located in Figueires, Spain, the Dalí Museum is the most successful and epoch-making work of the painter's lifelong pursuit of Surrealism. Unlike the Picasso Museum in Barcelona, ​​which is cramped, filthy, and dilapidated in a dilapidated alley, the Dalí Museum, with its four-hectare walled enclosure, is painted a rust-colored red, appearing particularly bright and mysterious under the rosy light of the setting sun. Especially striking are the clusters of earthen-yellow decorations resembling snail buns, like pairs of otherworldly eyes, enigmatic and unfathomable. Yet, the museum is, after all, a massive sarcophagus burying Dalí's life and art. Standing alone and abruptly among the surrounding low, old buildings, it inevitably feels somewhat forlorn. One explanation for Dali's surrealist works is that his inspiration came from Freud's clinical "dream analysis" diagnosis—the unconscious. Freud, therefore, was skeptical, even dismissive, of this figurative understanding by the painter. Of course, eloquent scientific theories cannot prevent the emergence of a novel art form. It caused a huge upheaval in the world of art, becoming one of the most widespread and rarest artistic phenomena of this century. Dali's unique, grotesque, absurd, and incomprehensible painting methods have had a profound influence on contemporary film, theater, novels, poetry, music, architecture, and other cultural arts. Therefore, while critics ridicule Dali as a madman, they must also acknowledge him as one of the most imaginative and creative masters of the 20th century. "Bread," a work from 1941, holds a pivotal position in Dali's artistic history. The painting features a table occupying a quarter of the canvas against a gray-brown background. At the center of the table, on one corner, is a delicately crafted wicker basket holding half a loaf of bread. The exquisite compositions exude an indescribable, static beauty. Undoubtedly, Dali's art consistently adhered to his own creative personality, a personality bordering on madness. In 1945, Dali did something endearing. He created a 70x80cm portrait of Picasso. At the time, Picasso was a rising star, yet Dali portrayed him as a witch, symbolizing the allure of beauty and the sins of worldly temptation. Dali was courageous, daring to express his own artistic style and challenge Picasso's dominant position as a titan of modern art, ruling Europe and even the world. In the 1970s and early 1980s, Dali's surrealist works, in interpreting Freud's pansexualism, were extremely captivating. For example, in the space between figuration and abstraction, the paintings often revealed a mysterious, grotesque beauty. This beauty, on his magically skillful handling of two-dimensional space, offered a dreamlike existence beyond reality. Therefore, his works aroused the interest of many Parisian jewelers, who designed numerous gold and silver jewelry pieces, as well as many modern installation art pieces. Feeling Dali. Dali gives me the impression of being absurd, grotesque, and capricious, without any intellectual constraints, nor pursuing any "ism" or philosophical meaning or intellectual value; but who can say that his paintings are devoid of thought?!

VI. Thinking of Picasso

Picasso's Work 1

It's not surprising that scientists are valued, as they belong to the primary productive forces. But where does the political ambition of art come from? I think partly from the decline of religion. Our society has undoubtedly become overly externalized; stock indices and economics, political negotiations, job hunting, cover girls, extensional logic—everything is measured by external standards. The inner spirit (the translation of "spiritual" somewhat diminishes its original "inner" meaning) is rarely reflected in the system.

Those who create art and those who appreciate art are two different kinds of people. Beethoven was a "Mongolian barbarian" (Haydn's words), while those who went to the concert hall to listen to Beethoven were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen.

In Amozart: A Biography (1984), art is always pan-spiritual; things that don't resonate with people have no meaning in art. The old moon over the Huai River, still shining over the city wall in the deep of night—every object, every scene, evokes our emotions. Cement walls, supermarket shelves—they don't appear in poetry or paintings, not because artists are sentimental or fond of the old, but because these things don't resonate with us. I'm not against Goethe's advocacy of incorporating modern elements into poetry and painting. The meanings of a bright moonlit night, a short pine ridge, a snow-covered river—their connotations have long been explored, exploited, and even difficult to reintroduce in various forms. But introducing new things isn't easy either. You can't force us to resonate with supermarket shelves, just as you can't force a word to have a new meaning by defining it. In the last two centuries, poets and painters have indeed made many efforts to introduce modern elements into art. Successful examples are few. It seems that the vocabulary of resonance changes more slowly than the vocabulary of language. Just as we often have to use existing vocabulary to express new ideas, artists often try to introduce things that have always belonged to our perceived world in new ways.

3. Works and Techniques 3.1 From External to Internal Can technical knowledge increase our understanding of music? It seems so: the more technical knowledge we have, the harder it is to understand, and the better we understand. What does "better understanding" mean? One meaning is: you understand what others haven't. We can ask this: If an adult who has little musical experience is imprisoned and unable to exchange opinions with anyone, and is now given music from ancient and modern times, both Chinese and foreign, what conclusions will he reach after a few years? His conclusions will be related to his previous education level, his evaluation of painting and poetry, and so on. His taste cannot be entirely natural. The internal often begins with the external, although it cannot be reduced to the external. This is crucial for discussing aesthetics, moral cultivation, and so on. The danger here is not to describe this process as "internalization," as if something external has been readily transferred inward, becoming something internal and readily available. The requirement that a work like The Power of Art (2006) contain considerable skill is a very simple, and seemingly inescapable, requirement. No matter how different our preferences for art types may be, no matter how our artistic concepts change, this requirement always seems to be there. If a viewer thinks, "I could paint that too," then the painting holds little appeal for them. There are exceptions, such as certain "conceptual art." But my feeling is that this is precisely what makes pure "conceptual art" not art. Many people share this feeling, although there is still much to discuss on this point. The difference between laymen and experts may be related to this factor: when laymen talk about skill, they mainly judge it by its ease of reproduction; when experts talk about skill, they consider the conception and execution as a unified whole. When a work is already in front of you, imitating Fox Trot A is much easier than imitating the Sistine Madonna. But this does not necessarily mean that, as a creative process, implementing the former is easier than implementing the latter. 3.2 Two Levels of Skill When we talk about skill, we always refer to the skill of implementation. But implementation seems to have two levels: one is from concept to design, and the other is from design to completion. Ordinary people may not see Mondrian's talent, but the architects he admired may have learned a great deal from him. Ordinary people mostly don't like watching "experimental films," we prefer Hollywood blockbusters; Hollywood blockbuster directors often watch experimental films. So, can we call Mondrian an "artist's artist" or a "meta-artist"? The phenomenon of artists' artists, poets' poets, and philosophers' philosophers existed before, but it only truly flourished in the twentieth century. How many ordinary Western paintings has a philosopher seen? Does he have the right to discuss the philosophy of art? He has never been to Greece; does he have the right to discuss Greek temples? Yet, it seems that Kant and Heidegger discussed art more profoundly than most museum directors, and in fact, had a greater influence on artists than they did. Just because they are famous philosophers, do we blindly follow their discussions on art? We don't necessarily need to have been to South America to talk about the Brazilian rainforest and its rare animals, nor do we need to have seen a space shuttle to discuss its design. A writer doesn't necessarily need to have stolen something to write about thieves, or attempted suicide to write about suicide. These are common sayings.

But is that really true? Don't we prefer to hear from people who regularly live or work in the rainforest? Think about how many different ways, from how many different angles, and at how many different levels we talk about the rainforest. When someone talks about the role of the rainforest in the global ecosystem and calls on us to contribute to its protection, we don't ask: Has he ever been to the rainforest?

4. Kant's Fallacy: Aesthetic Judgment Artists can certainly step outside their work to think about art, but that usually doesn't contribute much to the work itself. Philosophers tend to misuse words. The word "judgment" is one of the victims. Modern philosophers often confuse statements with judgments, calling statements like "There's a cat on the mat" or "She's my mother" a judgment. This is quite different from our usual usage and obscures many interesting points about judgment.

Table of Contents for Critique of Judgment (by Kant; translated by Deng Xiaomang; Beijing: People's Publishing House; 2017.1) We state a fact, but we do not judge a fact, although sometimes we need to judge whether it is a fact or not. When it comes to judgment, we always lack sufficient grounds; if we had sufficient grounds, we would not need to judge, but only state it. Judgment is a special ability. Things we see clearly do not require judgment; we judge things we cannot see or have not yet happened through clues, signs, etc.

Kant and many others use the term "judgment" to refer to a primary ability related to works of art. This choice of term makes some sense. Looking at a painting and saying "there's a cat on the cushion" is not an ability related to works of art, not judgment. But this term is still not ideal. We also need judgment when not dealing with works of art; for example, a general needs to judge the situation on the battlefield, and a stock market investor needs to judge the trend of stocks. While these are somewhat related to "artistic judgment," the difference is obvious. But more importantly, there's another point. The word "judgment" is more appropriate when dealing with objective matters. The English word "judgmental" hints at this: in some situations, judgment can contain an unpleasant element of excessive detachment. We don't judge in matters of emotion, in friendship, romantic love, or faith. We don't like to be friends with someone who is overtly or covertly judgmental, and if your spouse is someone who loves to judge, you're in for a rough ride. Judgment first separates value from fact, transforming what was originally connected into an external relationship. How much better it is to be a little oblivious in friendships and marriages! Who wants their every word and action scrutinized by sharp eyes?

So what word should we use to replace "judgment"? While "aesthetic judgment" distinguishes works of art from the stock market, it still involves "judgment," and the word "aesthetic" itself is problematic. "Appreciation"? That term isn't good either; it carries too much judgment. It's more appropriate for the antique market, although I admit that antiques are closer to works of art than battlefields or the stock market. "Appreciation" is slightly better than "consideration," but it still carries a somewhat condescending connotation.

Any purely objective understanding, that is, any purely artistic understanding, yields a result that is more like a manifestation of the essence of life and human existence, directly answering the question "What is life?" Every noble and successful work of art answers this question, in its own unique way, perfectly correctly. However, art can only tell us what resides in intuition with childlike and innocent language; it cannot lead us into abstract and serious reflection. Art's answer is merely a fleeting image, not stable and universally valid knowledge. Every work of art aims to answer that question directly—every painting, every sculpture, every poem, every stage play. Music, of course, also offers an answer, but it uses a language directly understandable to humans. While this language cannot be translated by reason, it unequivocally reveals the innermost essence of all life and human existence, making music more profound than all other arts. Other arts seem to present a picture to the questioner and declare, "Look, this is life!"—no matter how correct their answer, they can only ever offer a temporary solution, never a definitive or ultimate one.

Those arts can only offer fragments, replacing rules with examples, unable to provide the whole picture. This holistic content can only be given in the universality of concepts. To arrive at a stable answer to that question—an answer that always satisfies us—through conceptual means, that is, through reflective thinking in abstract thought (in abstracto), becomes undeniably the task of philosophy. Through this, we can glimpse how philosophy and various art forms develop a close relationship. We can also unravel the complexities of philosophical thought and artistic creation, revealing that while their directions and secondary aspects differ drastically, their foundations are the same.

It can be said that every work of art fundamentally strives to reveal to us what life and the myriad things are like in the realm of truth. Obscured by the fog of subjective and objective chance, not everyone can directly grasp the full picture of this truth. Art dispels this fog.

The works of poets, painters, and performing artists are, to a universally acknowledged degree, rich in the treasure trove of human wisdom: the wisdom inherent in nature speaks for itself through their works. Artists, through clarification and a doubly pure representation, translate the discourse of natural wisdom to us. Even every individual who reads poetry or appreciates a work of art contributes their own unique way to presenting that wisdom: to comprehend as much of the wisdom contained within it as their ability and education allow, much like every ship sailing on the deep sea casts its anchor as far as it can to the bottom. Everyone pauses before a painting, as if standing before a marquis ready to hear his teachings, and even if the marquis has not actually given any order, they will pretend to have heard something. —While the works of performing arts contain all the wisdom of nature, they remain only vitualiter and impicite. Conversely, it is precisely philosophy's striving to convey that wisdom to us in a factual and explicit manner; in this sense, philosophy is to other arts as wine is to grapes.

Philosophy promises to provide us with a tangible cash bonus, a stable and secure estate, but art offers something that constantly needs updating. Therefore, philosophy places daunting and unsatisfying demands not only on those who create the work but also on those who appreciate it. For this reason, there are few readers who understand philosophy, but many who appreciate art.

The appreciation of art, as mentioned above, often requires the viewer's participation. This is partly because any work of art can only produce an effect through the medium of imagination (Phantasie). Therefore, a work of art must stimulate the viewer's imagination, not allowing it to be excluded from this game, not leaving it idle. This is a condition for aesthetic effect to occur, a fundamental principle of all aesthetic art. Based on this fundamental principle, we can also deduce that art does not require the engagement of all senses; rather, it only requires ensuring that imagination operates on the right track: there are always things left for imagination, and some things left for imagination to complete last. Even writers themselves must leave something for readers to imagine freely. Voltaire aptly observed: "The real secret of boredom is that everything has been said."

The most beautiful things in art always belong to the soul, arising from the senses: a work of art is created by the artist, but it is born in the viewer's imagination. This explains why the sketches of masters often have a greater impact than their finished works, because their sketches have the advantage of being completed in the instant the artist conceives them; conversely, a painting, layered upon layered, can only be created through the artist's continuous hard work, intelligent thought, and unwavering commitment to their goal. Inspiration cannot last until the painting is finished. —Further, following the aesthetic principles discussed in the text, this explains why, while wax figures may achieve the highest level of perfection in imitating nature, they fail to deliver any aesthetic impact and therefore cannot be considered works of art. This is because wax figures leave no room for imagination. Sculpture possesses only pure form but lacks color; painting, though possessing color, is purely an illusion in form. Both therefore require the participation of the viewer's imagination. Wax figures give us everything—form and color—creating an illusion of realism, while excluding imagination from the game. Conversely, poetry can only seek the aid of imagination because it strives to express itself through pure words.

Blind (aesthetic) activity that uses artistic means but lacks any understanding of its purpose is a typical characteristic of superficiality in any art form. This blind activity can be seen in the hollow columns of poorly constructed buildings, the aimless swirling decorations, the various bulges and protrusions, the aimless noise produced in poor musical performances—phrases and patterns lacking substance—and the ping-pong sounds of rhymes bursting forth in empty poetry.

Based on the foregoing and my overall view of art, the purpose of art should be to clarify what knowledge of the world of Forms truly is (in the sense I understand Plato, in this sole sense of recognizing and understanding the word Forms). Ideas are essentially intuitive things, and therefore, their inherent characteristics cannot be clearly explained. The description of such intuitive things can only be done along an intuitive path—the path of art. Anyone who chooses art as the medium for describing ideas can confidently say that they have fully understood what ideas are. Pure concepts, on the other hand, are entirely about what can be explained, about the possibilities defined by the results of clear thinking. Concepts use words to calmly and objectively describe everything. However, the desire to depict the results of thought in the form of a work of art is a useless detour, belonging to the aesthetic activity we criticized earlier—using artistic means without a cognitive purpose.

On the afternoon of 30 April, a friend invited me to see the begonia in the Wujia Garden in Guajiatun, 'and I like the sunny weather' - looking back now, that day was the only spring in the ninety springs - the begonia flowers were my favourite again, and I was happy and joyful. Su Dongpo regretted that the begonia flowers had no fragrance, but I thought that if the fragrance was not beautiful, could it be fragrant? I planted a few lilacs and pearl plums in my yard, hostas in summer, and chrysanthemums in autumn, and I regretted them after planting. Because of these floral fragrances, they all give me a headache and cannot be folded and kept in the house. That is why among the fragrant flowers, I only love orchids, osmanthus, fragrant bean flowers and roses, and among the unscented flowers, begonia is my favourite. Begonia is a light red, red to be 'happy but not lewd', light white, white to be 'sad but not sorrowful', and covered by the green leaves of the tree, slender and moderate, like an innocent, fit, joyful girl, also the proudest of the Creator. In the setting sun, I was sitting together facing the flowering trees. Spring is in front of us, four begonias are in front of Huaixin Hall, and the two in the north are relatively large, about five or six feet higher than the eaves of the hall. Behind the flowers is the clear blue sky, the faint semi-circular moon, looking down at the treetops from a distance. On these four trees, thousands of exquisite and delicate flowers and roasted fruits are on the lush branches...... I want to do it. A spring hatred, a spring hatred and disgust, will be obtained at this time, joyful looking up, in front of you is a splendid spring, an arrogant spring, a bright spring,—— as if spring has been wandering and looking forward to countless times in the ninety days, a hundred is a thousand stops, but today on the branches of this tree, the meaning of happiness is to let go. After three or four days, another friend came to ask me to go with him, but I refused. It's always too late to look for spring everywhere this year, and I know that if I go at that time, it will be 'red like the sea', and next spring will be desolate, and there is no need to provoke the sea-like sorrow. Although there is only one day of spring in the ninety-year-old sky, and in spring, it seems that it has been retaliated against, and no longer resents or dislikes it. Just satisfied, but also felt a little regretful, just like a child looking for each other after a fight, everyone couldn't help but be angry and happy, but refused to return to the same thing immediately, only turned their back, lowered their head, and said, 'If I had known, you would have come to coax me again, why did you freeze me in the first place.'